Dolts
by sordid humor
Summary: Because strength isn't about pitching or catching, giving or receiving, but having the courage to take life by the balls and say, without fear, "this is mine."  HP/DM, established relationship fic


**TITLE:** Dolts

**AUTHOR:** sordid humor

**PROMPT:** Written for a festival at livejournal (hd_cockbook), Prompt #5.10 Domination for Dolts

**RATING:** MATURE

**SUMMARY:** Because Dominance isn't about pitching or catching, giving or receiving, but having the courage to take life by the balls and say, without fear, "this is mine."

**WARNINGS:** Adultery, Adult Language, Suggested Sex Acts, Mild Bondage

**BETAS:** all_not_well, writtenmatrix

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

This fic deals with a side of BDSM not often represented in fiction or fandom—the RACK Lifestyle (or, Risk-Aware Consensual Kink). I've done away with the more fantastical and sexualized aspects of BDSM culture—such as corporal punishment, collaring, cuckolding and the like—in order to really get to the essence of Dominance, submission and lifestyle power structure.

I wanted to showcase what this lifestyle is, what it looks like on any given day, and the 'how' and 'why' that exists for people who enter into this type of covenant. For the Dominant, it's about a daily caring and devotion to one's partner or partners, the wish to enrich their lives, lift them up with your presence, your actions and your love. For the submissive, a RACK partnership means you have found someone in whom you can trust implicitly—in fact, someone whose judgment you trust and believe in over your own. RACK relationships often neglect or eschew conventions like formal titles, ritual, and the 'roles' of top and bottom, pitcher and catcher, butch and bitch. As a result, most of the power structure remains hidden beneath the surface. Because it's subtle, it can be turned on or off at the drop of a hat, making it conducive to long-term relationships and intense partnerships like the one depicted here-in.

I hope you enjoy the alternate view.

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><p><strong>ooooooo<strong>

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><p>"<em>Dolts<em>"

sordid humor

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><p>"Draco."<p>

Harry spoke kindly. But it was still a warning.

The blond barreled on, oblivious. "… Married the bloody muggle, as you well know, and here's the _third_ creature she's popped out in the course of her employment!"

"Hey!" Harry interjected, setting down his fork with a pointed steel-on-porcelain _clink_. "Be nice."

They were all the way through dinner and onto dessert and Draco had yet to shut up with the exception of chewing his food. Harry hadn't gotten more than a sentence in all night. Draco complaining about his secretary wasn't unusual. And Draco's secretary announcing pregnancies _was_ getting to be a regular occurrence, truth be told; but wanting to build a family wasn't something Harry would hold against the woman—and neither should Draco. He had Scorpius, after all. If anything, he should empathize with his employee and perhaps offer a little sympathy for her reduced bladder capacity, morning sickness and countless other prenatal woes rather than harping on about how it would effect the productivity of his office.

Compassion wasn't Draco. Mostly because he wouldn't let himself be tender, sentimental. You'd never get the man to admit he cared two drops of garden gnome blood about anything or anyone but himself.

Draco kept right on complaining, gesticulating grandly with his dessert fork as the epithets and blood-slurs rolled off his tongue like the sparkling wine they both sipped. Draco complained a lot—lived for it, Harry thought privately. The man wasn't happy unless he had something to gripe about. It was usually his secretary or a client, or occasionally a rant on blood purity, but he seemed most free when he had something or someone to tear into. Harry liked seeing Draco light up, the excited flush creeping over his cheeks as he talked about the number of hours it would take to interview candidates to take Charlotte's place while she was on yet another maternity leave, the glimmer of silvery light in his eyes and the way his pale fingers flipped between wine glass and plate while bemoaning his lost productivity and escalating displeasure. And so Harry let him go on a bit more, just to see his face so animated, his body so expressive and filled with energy as he complained his way through what could have been a truly romantic dinner.

The restaurant was perfect—Alain Ducasse at the Plaza Athénée, pristine white tablecloths with red accents in a room whose gilt and molding smacked painfully of Paris, the city Draco had made his home. The blond was at home here, far enough from the influence and culture of Britain that he could begin to be himself after all these years.

That true self wasn't always pretty, Harry mused, nodding soberly as he worked his way through a decadent and sickeningly sweet persimmon crème brûlée. Draco wasn't an easy person to be with—he was conniving, manipulative, self-centered and flat-out rude. He resisted change and reveled in his own superiority at every turn. But he was a beautiful, delicate soul. Harry did everything he could to shield Draco, to build walls around the man's shortcomings and protect him from a cruel, judgmental world that would never really understand him. Draco never took criticism well from anyone; that much hadn't changed since Hogwarts. Dealing with his emotions was a constant struggle—forced into an arranged marriage when his family knew he was gay, pestered to produce an heir with his frigid mouse of a spouse, criticized for moving his investment practice and his young wife to France seemingly out-of-the-blue. Harry let Draco bitch a little longer: Draco needed it. It wasn't really his secretary he was whinging about, anyway.

"If I didn't know better," Draco postulated with his wine glass, the last of his Moscato d'Asti swirling in a golden-yellow glow. The candlelight reflected off the crystal-set table, sending remnants of silver and light bouncing around in his cool eyes. "I'd say she was a Weasley, producing an entire brood of muddy little Squibs—"

"That's enough," Harry snapped. "If you're going to be negative, I'd rather not hear it. Call me crazy but I thought tonight was about us."

Draco didn't have the courtesy to appear chastised. If anything, his face bore 'affronted' with a dash of 'shocked.' Anyone but a former Slytherin would have been mortified: today marked their first anniversary. One year since they'd bumped into each other at some stupid Ministry gala and wound up kissing their brains out in the cloak room. One year since they'd started cheating on their wives. One year since they'd found one another in a sea of black robes and bleak faces: one year since they'd fallen in love. Tonight was supposed to be about the two of them, their bond, the love and devotion they'd developed... how far they'd come. But Draco couldn't help himself. This was how he dealt with his emotions—by sweeping them under the rug, ignoring the larger picture because the only thing he could handle was nitpicking at the tiniest of flaws in the here-and-now. He was afraid. Harry knew that. Draco was acting. The mounting appearance of outrage on his face was all for show. So was the way he lept from his chair and spat, "I'm going to the gentleman's room, Potter. I'd like it very much if you weren't here by the time I return. Good evening."

And he stormed off to the loo.

Typical Draco Malfoy, running from his problems. Draco had a problem facing things that were difficult, situations that challenged him and questioned who he was, what he stood for. For all his bombast and blustering appearances, Draco was wilting on the inside—had been since Hogwarts, since the war. Maybe it was that Hero Complex Hermione harped on about... but Harry couldn't resist the urge to save Draco. Maybe, from the ashes of his old life, a newer, better man could emerge.

Harry put his elbows on the table, letting his forehead slip into the familiar cradle of his palms.

He'd always been the hopeful one in this truly fucked up affair. Even in the darkest moments of his life, there had always been that spark buried deep in his gut, telling him beyond a doubt that things would work out for the best. He didn't always understand it—maybe it was magic. Maybe it was his heart. It was that feeling, that warm and insatiable burning in his gut which kept him at Draco's side.

But it was hard to keep on when Draco didn't believe with him.

He left an ample number of euros on the table, following Draco to the loo.

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><p><em>Repello Muggletum <em>was one of those spells with a tendency to drip off his fingertips like water after a long hot shower: he was barely aware of wandlessly casting it as he entered the restaurant's loo. The only evidence of his spell was the magic rolling between his fingers, a sticky gush like egg yolk escaping his morning breakfast sandwich to _squish_, warm and sloppy between his digits. Magic escaped him, barring anyone from entering the white-tiled room after the door closed behind him.

Draco wouldn't make eye contact at first. He stood at the sink—haughty, tall and proud—drying his hands with a fluffy white towel. He was meticulous, working the fibers between the web of each finger. Harry knew Draco hated moisture on his skin because the sensation reminded him of tears. And Draco wouldn't allow himself that particular weakness—vanity, certainly, and a taste for the extravagant, but never sadness, regret, true feelings that went beneath the surface and spoke to who he was, the soul which lurked beneath. It was always a fight to get emotional truths from Draco, like pulling teeth from an angry Jaculi. The man had trained himself to push everything down, thinking his way through life instead of feeling. It took so much to break through his mind, his cold exterior, to get at the meat of him. Sometimes Harry considered Draco to be his second job, for all the time he spent working to get the blond to open the fuck up and be real, if only for an instant.

Draco looked up, catching Harry's reflection in the silver-framed mirror. Draco threw the towel at mirror-Harry's face before whirling around to face him, hands braced against the marble counter in an elegant display of elbows and angles. Draco remained impossibly thin post-Hogwarts, willowy and frail. The articulation of limbs suited him; long body and the hard, proud lines of his face drawing attention to his big silvery eyes. He was handsome, even as those eyes flashed in anger.

"What the fuck, Potter? I told you to bugger off."

A hand in his trouser pocket, Harry gave a snort and drew closer. He took one stalking step forward followed by another, his gaze never leaving Draco's face. Draco backed himself against the counter as Harry neared, leaning back on his hands until his hips jutted forward, bending himself over backwards to get away.

"So you tell me what to do now? That's rich." Chin jutting, Harry jerked forward—just a few inches, threatening—and was pleased when Draco flinched. His doe eyes blinked rapidly to clear out the vague sheen of intimidation... and lust. Shows of power tended to reach Draco like nothing else could. Some people yearned for tender touching, soft fingers and gentle words in the night; Draco needed strength, craved it. He was drawn to it like a moth to flame. Sometimes it burned him but he would never let go.

Draco sneered. It looked like he was holding back from rolling his eyes as he spoke, casually crossing his legs at the ankle as though he wasn't bothered by Harry's proximity. Still, the air fairly crackled with aggression. "We're in muggle a loo. Gryffindor ethics alone prevent you from doing anything stupid with your precious muggle innocents about," he drawled, gesturing to the door with a flippant hand, curling his fingers to draw attention back to himself. He poked Harry hard in the chest, emphasizing the head's difference in height bequeathed him by the years between Madam Malkin's and Alain Ducasse's loo. "I'm not afraid of you, Scarhead. Never have been. But since you can't take a hint, I think I'll be on my way."

The familiar smirk adorning his pointed face could only mean one thing—Draco thought he'd outsmarted Harry and was about to make his get away. Well, that wouldn't do.

Harry snatched Draco's arm before he could Apparate, loosing a shock of magic strong enough to root the man in place. He felt the tremor work its way through Draco's body, pain and power mingling in his precious pure blood to keep him rooted exactly where he was.

"You're not going anywhere 'til you hear what I have to say."

Draco's fingers twitched, the tendons of his arm working frantically beneath Harry's hand.

"Fuck off, Potter," Draco announced, syllables faintly hissing as they fell from his lips.

"Seriously?" Harry leaned closer, getting in Draco's face. "We both know you want me here." Draco snorted, staring at Harry's scar to keep from meeting his eyes. Harry tightened his grip on that lanky arm, resisting the urge to reach up and stroke Draco's cheek, instead. "I can't stand seeing you like this—so bitter. You shouldn't say those things about Charlotte."

"Why shouldn't I?" Draco laughed, a high and haughty sound. It bounced around the tiled room, trilling a second after the man's voice died out. The gilded mirror sent a play of light across his face, making his pale hair and pastel cheeks a ghostly vision, devoid of emotion except that which he'd so carefully painted on. That laughing face was a worn veneer. "You know every word of it's true. Two Squibs and a third on the way—I should fire her now and be done with it. She's a disgrace."

Harry flinched. "Draco. You can't talk about people that way."

"Why not?" Petulant, Draco's chin jutted out, all fierce challenge and fire. "You're thinking the exact same thing. You're just too afraid to say it. Perfect Prince Potter," and he did roll his eyes, as though pained by the conversation. He was doing a fair job of pretending he didn't want to be there, didn't care.

"Don't be so cold," Harry murmured, pressing his forehead to Draco's. White-blond fringe tickled his eyes, slipping over the rims of his glasses to brush at his lashes. "I know it's not you—not really."

"I _am_ cold."

Harry knew otherwise—he knew Draco broken and weeping, destroyed by bad choices and the weight of stigmas placed upon his shoulders at birth. He knew there was more to Draco Malfoy than anyone could fathom; deep pools of feeling, intensity beyond measure or compare. He also knew better than to mention any of that intimate knowledge aloud. Draco never took compliments well—he called it mere placation and claimed he wouldn't tolerate being pandered to, 'Chosen Dolt' or not. You had to be careful in paying lip service to this particular snake.

"You're not," Harry countered, insistent, slipping his other hand around the man's waist and drawing him close. "I _know_ you, Draco."

"Stop it." The blond tried to shove him away. Harry might've been a head shorter but he was far stronger; he kept a firm hold on Draco's arm, sinew and silk shifting beneath his grip as Draco began to struggle in earnest. The blond stumbled a few steps before being jerked right back into Harry—he needed the fight, needed to give his all and be broken down by something bigger than himself. With the element of surprise and a bit of muscle, Harry hauled Draco against the nearest wall and held him there, chest to chest.

"Shut up," Harry growled. "I love you, git. And you love me. Fool everyone else—but you'll never fool me. I see right through you. Always have, always will."

"No," the blond mumbled. "No, I won't let you."

Harry nipped at his throat, silencing those whisper protests with the sharpness of teeth and a gentle flow of magic. "Didn't I tell you to shut your gob, Malfoy?" he simpered, paying homage to their old school days in words if not in intention. A slow lick followed, tracing a blooming line of red shaped like his two front teeth. "You'll let me do anything. Anything." A flicker of wandless magic had the blond's belt unhinging itself that Harry's hand might slip inside like he owned the bloody place. He took hold and gave the most firm and telling squeeze that ever was. "Now I'm going to love you," he announced to the curve of pale throat at his disposal. "And there's not a damn thing you can do about it."

"I'll—"

Harry flipped his free hand and cast a silent spell. Draco's arms shot out, helpless at his sides, stretched flat against the chilly surface by magic beyond his reckoning. With a shiver, tiles began to pull away from the wall, wrapping in thick bands around his wrists, elbows, biceps and ankles.

"...but?" Draco gasped. Impossibly wide eyes flashed between the top of Harry's head and the doorway where he surmised unsuspecting muggles might enter at any moment and witness their magic—witness what was sure to come. Harry only smirked. He'd always figured there were perks to having magic: something to balance out all the secrecy and danger. Playing at danger for the purpose of sex was one of the first true joys he'd stumbled across once beyond the hallowed halls of Hogwarts.

Harry met Draco's feverish, darting glances with a cool front, letting his head tilt to one side as though regarding a misbehaving subordinate instead of his regular sex partner and sometimes-love. He was careful to keep his face placid, devoid of emotion. "Muggles? Let them see," he shrugged.

"We'll be c-caught," Draco warned, breath hitching in his chest, his usual cadence tripped by the blip of terror racing through his mind. Feeling flickered just behind his steely gaze, white tiles tightening against his wrists until a red blush graced the whiteness of him. He fought his confinement, pulling at the sections of ceramic and grout that bound him. The man was so consumed with vexation, he couldn't be arsed to keep from referring to the two of them as a pair, a unit, _together_. Silently, Harry cherished the victory without letting it translate to his features beyond a carefully raised brow.

"Merlin. _The Prophet_ hasn't had a good outing in years—not since Ollie Wood," Harry wet his lips, remembering the blaring headlines, the image of his former Gryffindor mate consuming the rag's front page with a blushing, sheepish grin. He tried to sound cocky over glib. "I'd say we're due for a scandal, wouldn't you?"

"Fuck, fuck," Draco chanted, shoulders and white-blond head slamming to the tiled wall as true panic set in. "No. Come on," he nearly pleaded—pleading for Malfoys, which sounded more like miserable endurance. "You can't be so daft."

Harry's free hand worked at the opalescent shirt buttons beneath Draco's tie. He blinked innocently, focused on his task. "Oh, I believe I am that daft, my dear." He squeezed with the hand firmly embedded below Draco's belt-line, just for emphasis. The blond was swelling beneath his hand—had been since the moment Harry backed him against the sink. It was their old game of cat-and-mouse on steroids and Engorgement Charms: the right combination of magical and muggle could yield surprising results.

Pale, blue-veined hands balled into fists, no longer battling restraints but conflicting feelings—the desire to rocket off this wall and snog or beat Harry senseless likely chief among the swirling emotional debris. Instead, Draco dropped his head, knocking his forehead hard against the dark mess of Harry's crown.

"Dolt," he whispered vengefully.

"Dolts," Harry corrected, trailing a warm hand up Draco's stomach, waves of ivory gooseflesh blooming in the wake of calloused fingertips. "The both of us."

Draco was a monument, cool marble tension under his hands. The blond breathed tightly, nostrils flaring, head turned staunchly to the side, just-so. He breathed again, slower, the tightness of his jaw belying teeth and fists and will all clenched against surrender. The thought itself was painful, written in lines across his brow. Harry might as well have had a hand around his throat rather than his cock—the expression on Draco's face would have been the same.

"Dolt," the blond repeated staunchly, mournful. He could have meant Harry or himself. The Boy Who Lived Twice didn't bother to confirm, dropping to his knees.

Draco groaned his protests; buggering, colorful curses and accusations of Oral Hoover Charms oft-repeated as Harry drew out the best and worst of Draco Malfoy. He didn't pull off until Draco was thrashing against his bonds, dress shirt open and the tails flying as his body shook. The skinny end of his fancy patterned tie stuck to his stomach, damp with spit and sweat. The sight of him was unbelievable... and all there for the taking. Harry bit, hard, sinking his teeth into a hip that left bruises on his thighs when they fucked. Draco let out a pathetic wail, giving in to the pain.

"Damn it, Potter—public!" the man whimpered. Any excuse to save himself from torment.

Draco never liked blowjobs. It was the strangest thing, really. For the longest time, Harry thought it was because he was terrible at giving them. He went so far as to try his hand at Oliver Wood, just for the sake of getting a few solid pointers. As fate would have it, Harry Potter might have been more aptly titled 'The Boy Who Blew,' as he was quite excellent at it. Ollie had been putty in his hands. Eventually his curiosity got the best of him and Harry resorted to non-verbal Legilimens to discover why Draco never asked his boyfriend to go down on him. It was a matter of intimacy. Draco liked his sex fast and dirty—preferably facing away from one another, done in the dark and had out as quickly as possible. Harry's penchant for drawing things out in order to enjoy the moment had infuriated Draco their first few times. The lights were turned on and off with such rapidity that they'd both seen neon spots. There had been many the rage-fueled storm-off before Harry put his foot down. It got to the point where he simply tied Draco down and forced him to suffer through it all, face-to face. With kissing. Like two people who genuinely cared for one another. Draco nearly died of simultaneous horror and embarrassment.

He didn't like having Harry's face between his legs. It was too personal, apparently. It meant something.

So Harry did it now: in all its gagging, slurping, honest-gazed glory. And he took his sweet fucking time. Draco could handle it. He probably needed it, to be that close to another person. No one took the time to get close to Draco—Harry was the only one to ever even try. He didn't expect sudden bursts of affection in return; Draco spouting the "L" word or contemplating leaving his wife. Harry wasn't that kind of daft. But it was his earnest hope that one day, Draco might learn to love himself.

Tonight, all he wanted was a bitter shot to the throat and that look of utter, unadulterated bliss on Draco's sharp ferret face—the expression he only got with Harry. In that instant, Draco understood how passionately he was loved. The sense of loyalty, care and trust would surge between them without fail. And it lit up Draco's face like nothing Harry had ever seen. For a single moment, Draco's cares would wash away and he could be himself—let go of everything and be content in his own skin. Content in them, together. He wanted, more than anything, to give that happiness to Draco. Even a moment of it was enough. And in that moment, Draco was his.

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><p><strong>ooooooo<strong>

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><p>He could hear Charlotte chattering away the moment he stepped from the lift. Her full titter of a laugh greeted him as he pushed open the beveled glass door to his private offices, a heavy stack of parchments occupying the space between his forearm and chin.<p>

Charlotte hung up the telephone and looked up to greet him. "_Ô__, Monsieur__ Malfoy!_ Let me 'elp yoo with those."

Draco stopped so abruptly that half his papers toppled from the steady care of his chin. They spilled out over the ground in a flutter like tiny wings beating the marble floor.

He blinked twice. There was a very large bouquet of flowers taking over his secretary's desk—irises and daisies, great bursting lilies—every color of the spectrum erupting in a riot all over his beautiful white foyer. The card beside them read, unmistakably, "Congratulations."

He decided the loud colors had merely caught him off guard. But as Charlotte waved her wand, reorganizing his parchments and floating them into the small conference room overlooking Montparnasse, he found himself transfixed by the missive propped up against the vase. The sender was himself. And the handwriting was, without a doubt, Harry Potter's.

He'd know that untidy scrawl anywhere. Especially its poor imitation of his own cramped spikes and loops. He'd seen the forgery countless times—Harry signing his lover's name to a hotel _projet de loi_, Draco himself too knackered to be trifled with getting out of bed. Harry had sent the horrible flowers to Charlotte; congratulating her, Draco presumed, on her single-minded determination to breed wizard-kind out of existence. He shrugged.

Charlotte floated back into the foyer, gushing "_Merci infiniment pour les belles fleurs,_" in a dreamy, sing-song voice, smiling fondly at the stupid things.

"_Ce n'est pas grave_," he replied, flipping a pale hand in her direction. Because it really wasn't any skin off his nose. Let the domineering dolt spend his money on the Squibs of Tomorrow Foundation—Merlin knew Draco couldn't pay her enough to support the infinite number of mouths destined to spring forth from betwixt the witch's legs. There had to be at least a dash of Weasley in her pedigree.

He realized he was gripping the crystal door handle to his office with unnecessary force. A vein throbbed painfully in his arm, thrumming an ill-paced dance with a similar vein at the side of his throat.

It wouldn't do to get worked up over nothing; after all, Harry was only seeing to what Draco, eventually and most begrudgingly, would have taken care of in due course. And the flowers suited Charlotte more than any arrangement Astoria might have selected; they were garish and lively and oh-so-loud, the polar opposite of his spouse. Yes, Harry was the one to do this.

Draco went to the tiny window tucked between the bookshelves of his office, peering down Rue de Château toward the square. He kept thinking he would see Harry down in the cobbled street—the heavy musk of his cologne waited in the still air, the hum of his hero's heart one with the traffic of the street. He could feel Harry coming, delivering a danish or truffles to see the effects of his machinations firsthand.

That was what Draco would have done, anyway. He would have rubbed it in his own face. But that wasn't Harry. As much as he hated to admit it, Potter had become a sort of god in his life—omnipresent, silent and overseeing. Overbearing. Controlling. He should have hated it. He should have loathed every bloody second of being pandered to by the boy-hero. He really should have. But millions of seconds had melded together and here he stood, pining for Potter.

Where had the venom gone? The hatred and loathing he'd once felt toward Harry Potter had dissipated this last year, replaced by an oddly stinging warmth in his chest—the infernal cold, deeply congested, which set in a little worse each time he and Harry had one of their dinners... which turned into weekends and trips abroad disguised with lies of business and clients. He knew he'd never be rid of it, now it had taken roost in him. And he didn't particularly care. Let it come.

It had been a long time since he'd had a shadow hanging over his head, a Dark Lord to pull his strings. He'd sworn never to be ruled-over again, to be his own man through-and-through and he'd done exactly that... but with Potter, that cloying presence was oddly comforting. Knowing that someone was out there, quietly on his side, paving the way while staying out of it, handing him these small victories.

Who knew flowers was all it took to get his secretary working? Those Filing and Hover Charms had been the first she'd performed in seven months, at least. Perhaps Harry had put something in the pollen...

He was a dolt for thinking so. He was a dolt for so many, many things.

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><p><em>~ fin ~<em>


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